"fulminating" poems
I'm not over her,
Though painful,
Without it,
?
The foundation of my childhood home,
Became the foundation,
Of an inferno.
She is the firewood,
She is the flames,
She is fulminating,
Just as a name.
It horrifies me she will never feel the heat,
Nor see the lights,
As this will never scald her skin,
Nor scorch her eyes.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
I cannot recall the precise moment of my arrival at Anhedonia
memories blindsided by a phantasmagoric comorbid collage of cant
precipitated by some newspaper reportage or holocaust story
some creepy instance that breached the precipice between simple sorrow and permanent melancholia
some fatal blow that cinched the deal
some horrid event that could not heal
some dejected disappointment that could not be resolved
some moment of unguarded clarity when integrity dissolved
nevertheless I have arrived at this mangled juncture
élan a mania not even Edison's medicine can extirpate
I was quite lighthearted before the inferno
before my brain broke
ennui now a turgid companion
feeding on gaiety, never sated, seeking famine
esurient unrelenting usurper of happiness
go away, leave me alone, relish some other soul's madness
gone is any exuberance, glee or mirth
miseries are mine, many the days since birth
better I was carried from the womb straight to the grave
a fatuous existence, clamoring and grasping in vain
it's as if I was born into a well
but these waters they burn
the bludgeoning alcohol a liquid hell
Oh florid loquacity, you are an impostor
your verse is an adversary
a foray of jagged rhythm justifying a storm
a sordid verbosity assuring no norm
a plaintive scratching guild of recriminative collaboration
some alliance of fulminating disquietude
the cost for the fare on the adventure to:
the stunning moment you too will visit Anhedonia
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
Every dawn is a nexus, /
Every twilight is a beckoning; therefore, /
Embrace the fickle future /
Ensconscing within the sacral oath /
Of a thousand words: /
These utterances shall envelop you /
When upon Triumphal Arcadian Skies /
We meet again. /
Save your tears, /
For love shall reign /
From the empyreal aethers above /
To the Gaian epidermis of /
The Magnanimous Matriarch; moreover, the mellifluous kisses /
Of The Sovereign of Songbirds /
Will burgeon within, /
Will descend upon you as The Holy Dove. /
Unfurl your third eye, /
See with an indefatigable clarity /
All that you were meant to be: /
Strong, Wise, Just; /
Love; /
A luminary fulminating /
Radiantly, resplendently upon /
The Denizens of the Terrene. /
(—Se' lah)
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 12:00 AM UTC
There is this bare stalk in my backyard. With upraised branches, all dried, painted in contrast to the lush greenery all around: sometimes, I feel, like the branches of a swirling bolt fulminating against dark, brooding, boding skies.
I have seen three seasons pass by. This stalk has remained bare. All around, trees have gone from withering to flowering and onward. This one though, stands constantly poignant, almost embodying pathos, endlessly mourning.
Insects - termites? ants? I don't know, but I see they have covered large parts of the stalk. Raised to the skies, like an enigma, a puzzle thrown to the distant stars veiled by the firmament. Yes, I know this slow death that sustains life.
Yes, I can relate to it. It is like this pain that haunts my soul. Like the song of the smudged moon on a misty night, sung to uncaring, asleep worlds. After skies weep out their agony, the music of the last tears dripping off tips of drooping leaves.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
The size, do you see it?
That nefarious beast overwhelming
But suddenly the beast is overwhelmingly gone
It's absence, it confounds me to the very bitter end
I search and I search
Till my fingers fall away
Then inside of me, the final searching place
And there, as I peer inside, lurks the hideous beast intrinsic
Desecrating the make-shift temple of my unclean heart
But then, a fulminating voice from above:
Reach inside and pluck him out from your unclean heart
Snarling, the beast lands on the leaves, and cries out as he falls
Through the earth and through the fire as he is finally ruined
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
once I beat a television to death
it was a very bad television, always showing me bad things
almost as if it had some proclivity for badness
but how can an inanimate thing have an inclination
surely what it showed to me was of my persuasion
So soon after I'd thrown it out
I sat around fulminating in something of a pout
at first I missed the sensation, the noise and the thrill
and observed I'd become quite inured to the ****
and little by little as such thoughts soon languished
it occurred to me also such thoughts would be vanquished
So after a spell, I obtained another set
and soon I was reminded, it wasn't finished with me yet
oh the gore, the blood, oh the sinister grime
oh you and me what a ghastly good time
and then and there I again realized
the images I'm viewing are choices of mine
How quickly we forget
memories of convenience
blaming the other guy
scapegoating reason
nobody forces you to watch the modern megalith
and once again I beat another television to death
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 10:38 PM UTC
remind me why
I'm still awake
why does
sleep elude me so?
I've searched corners
under-bellies
empty bottles
for answers
but answers still elude me so
i doubt myself
and where I stand
hardly a
respectable man
but genuine
in whatever it is
that keeps me awake
until six
nothing makes
sense
and with street lights
guiding my way
flickering
fading
fulminating
I stumble
trip
through dawn cascading
the walk down every
alleyway
heavy steps upon the street
questioning until collapse
the empty beer cans at my feet
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:57 AM UTC
Straddled, lovingly, fibers needle into bone
Your anxiety of anticipation,
How I wish it were potable,
So I may drink the terror I have bred in you
I perch above you, heinous desires for your flora to overrun my entrails
Of all the silt eyes in the world, yours are the darkest
Pining for your validation,
For your attention,
As withered roots desperately crawl towards the damp soil
But your heart is barren of solicitude
And so I will soak the soil with your blood.
This charming man,
So cunning, and so wise
If it is not I who fulfills your ****** appetite,
No one will.
Undergrowth impels into irrigated bushes
Hedonism, even as your eyes paint such terror inimitable to capture in brush strokes
Voraciously, desperately,
It builds, the adrenaline, the bliss,
And into me you are, fulminating, everything your pedigree can give
I raise the steel, and I am unafraid
For my calloused hands have been soiled for generations
Plunging,
Squelching,
Broken yawps.
Your lineage,
Cradled by forever empty organs,
Is just as barren as your soul.
As your gore suffocates your lungs,
And my tongue caresses my blade,
I watch those silt eyes turn even darker
You will expire in me,
And no one will have you again.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 1:57 AM UTC
it is not that we are far away
but there is this stilled candor that
there are spaces, gaps, turns and swerves that we cannot close.
as in a star in its throne will remain
to be lit in diadem of white, cannot be touched or you in your silence
with the drone of such tired machine:
moon's all round and all i saw, yet not
always the visible, encircled in flesh and
without so much question, the mind's a
quicksilver marauding to motion all
things except your own parasols bending
to such airlessness, and to make tractable, this unstable mirage
of you, fulminating in such bright auroras persisting within the day when you
arrive not with hands but with chains,
machineries and not bones, no such lissomeness of skin love-hewn but walls,
not the earthen night but only brindled silence like the world whispering ssmething
close to the ear not love but pain.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC
Waiting around
I converse with myself
Climbed a tree today
Picked some bananas to sell
Or to barter
With shopkeepers
Down at the market
Compartmentalizing
The extra
To part with
Or keep to eat freely
As soon as they ripen
In but a few days
More of boring old life in
My site
Took a hike
To seek quiet,
Imagined these hills
Fulminating
In riot
If I were inciting
Rebellions
Contriving
An artifice to
See the fires
Igniting
But as the day ends
And the sun vanishes
From the scene
My passivity banishes
Any a notion
Of causing commotion
And looking for trouble
Where nothing is broken
Evoking instead
Of promoting bloodshed
In its stoking the furnace
Forged steel in my head
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 5:07 AM UTC
Sometimes, for no
apparent reason,
I am reduced to a
fulminating idiot,
quivering and
flummoxed by
divergent impulses.
Do I hit the panic button
that will eject me to
anywhere but myself
or simply yawn
and take a nap?
This may be a proof of
The Uncertainty Theorem.
I'm not sure.
~mce
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
Forged through amalgamations of bravery, deepest indifferance and hunger, fluster formed a solid ingot of unimaginable tensile strength. Bought and chewed what she was fed, "Oh to be wed." She would have it melted in her mind, as if drilled through skull, and smoldered into a pithy membrane. This vow, this marriage, this perfunctory cause and reaction would be solid fortune of her life. As if what her mother, father, church and giddy peers always spoke was lost wax fulminating from her ears. Topped with encrustation, a sparkly rock, salt of some miner's sweat, this platinum bond formed and molded was then clamped on her finger. As we of confused instincts know ourselves, she came from a far worse place. This all the reasoning there need be, for institution. Most of her life, she would not miss that lost pithy wax, that mind of her own. For this was the method called "sacrament" and this was her sacrifice.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
I.
We laugh about it as we age:
Becoming our parents.
Women, about wearing housecoats,
Kleenex in the sleeve, anile,
Muttering vague execrations
At the husband
Or the cat.
We men, about thinning hair,
Shoulder no good
For throwing,
Expressions from another time:
“You’re a sight for sore eyes!”
It scares and comforts us,
I suppose,
That we are destined to reprise
The fading song our parents played
On their way through life.
We cannot help
But long to know,
How the melody will go
When life’s light flickers
And dies.
II.
In all those silly ways, it’s true,
That I am becoming you—
Skinny legs,
Thick in my middle,
Age spots on these hands,
Dappled as a trout
But rough and dry,
Like yours.
I even guess
I ache as you ached
To see my child prepare for college.
I yearn, as I think you yearned,
To know how time swept by
Like a gust in autumn
Rolling before it the russet leaves of days,
Passing with no more than
A gentle breath upon the face.
In these ways, too,
I am becoming you,
Or always was:
Troubled, soulful, anxious,
Stirred by life’s incantatory dirge.
III.
And yet I know
That you were something great,
While I am merely aging.
When you trudged
Your path through Hell,
Your soul surged,
As if to run life’s gauntlet
Were somehow nourishment
For the man you knew to become.
My hells are simple matters:
Midlife’s usual trials,
Banal and contained,
Seldom rising to heroic.
You—you strove with God,
Fulminating and proud.
Like Ulysses,
You fell spent upon your deathbed,
Glowing like the ember of a demigod.
IV.
I shall become you
In all the little ways that life allows:
Absent-minded,
Saturnine.
But I have not lunged upon Antaeus,
Nor ever will.
Still, I am your son.
That right is mine—
Though my hells are not Hades
And my foes are not Gods.
Yet, I long to give a loud report
When my final day is shot;
To have striven well with Self,
Subdued, at least, my mundane.
That much I hope to do
In my own way
In becoming you.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
~for all the old poets,
especially one so denominated, my old faithful friend…~
<>
the
THEY,
emboldened and italicized,
are whispering and whimpering,
even
whining
that I’ve gone
wimpy,
lost possess of mine
facilities and faculties,
no longer able and capable
to command, demand, in hand,
import
a decent poem
from & in the English language(s) to
purport,
lost my edges,
hide behind the hedges
of inconsequential ancestral
and incestual rhymes,
these
THEY
do oft appear as voices in my
now emptied and unemployed head,
but familiarity breeds contemporary
contretemps of contempt,
for they are remiss,
in dismiss when the eyelids
flutter,
the noble temporal lobes
mutter,
*’tis thy~thyme ole man,
for spillage of your*
FPOTD
(first poem of the day)
thus kneecapping the cancer
of a restless dark hour period
where failures and faults,
of lines
crossed and uncrossed,
bear you to pieces,
bare your lifetime
laundry list
of pulsing, palpable,
fulminating and always ruminating faults
of which penance cannot be bought
by the bags of pennies and sordid assorted coins
that THEY
will find in the back bottom of thine closets,
along with the manuscripts
of the discarded and forlorn,
unloved and unpublished poems that you chose
to have buried with you,
lest you think that
eternal rest
will best
them voices,
they will accompany you
to permafrost of forever dark,
their once and future demise,
a travesty of
justice…
enough.
lists of to do’s;
the exercise of delaying death
for one more day,
by trodding on the treadmill
that postpones the inevitable
that can
always tun longer and faster
and cannot be outdone, outrun,
but
this poem
disgorged and disbanded,
it’s bytes,
will not bite mark me
in the forever future
*their bytes are alive now,
free to be chomped and well chewed,
and once fully digested,
be return to our Mother
Earth*
where some disclaimed poems
go to be buried
within it’s eternity
Apr 21, 2024
Apr 21, 2024 at 10:16 AM UTC
Adulterous besieging capstone damnation
exploitation foists groping, heaving
insidiously jerking
knowingly lunges
machinations notoriously nymphomaniacal
officiating ****** quests
rapaciously, sadistically
tenaciously, unstoppably
vasocongested wickedness
Xerses yawped zeolously.
***************************
All throughout history of man/woman kind
ascendent civilizations extensively gouged,
impailed, kindled, murderous outrages
quashing sacred urges, women yearned.
***************************
Versatile thematic refrain punctuating nubiles
maximized looting, pillaging, ******
visited upon females via decimating fountainhead
guarding brestworks of vestal virgins,
innocent youths (little boys and girls).
***************************
Twenty first century **** Sapiens male population continue to applaud, covet, extol, gloat, invoke, kickstart, ****** outrages, quest savagely thee unbridled wedded yoke appropriating coquettishly enshrined gals imposing killing mandates okaying queasy sordid ugly wretchedness yanking aborhent behavior denigrating, fulminating, harrassing, jawdropping lewdness, nabbing prized rearends, twerking, violently whiplashing, yelling zingers.
***************************
Now not a day elapses with instances women claim untoward advances, and/or forced coercion to satiate and temporarily slate the ****** thirst informing prononced picadilloes (philandering if married pompous head honcho demands appeasement of coitus, ******** indecent lowball outrageous ribald uncouth ****** animalistic, carnal, feral, gonadal, immoral, kleptomaniacally misogynistic, narcissistic, opportunistic, pathetically reprehensible, torturously undervaluing, validating virility within Yankee Doodle, haply lambasting, proudly touting, vaunted wayfair zest.
***************************
The above meandering stream of consciousness attempted to amplify, a recent spate of accusations figuratively slapped against a male *** mongers, who specifically rule roost, and blithely, demandingly, forcefully, hideously, impishly, killingly, malignantly, opprobriously, powerfully, repeatedly, terminally, vindictively, wantonly, yearningly acrimoniously belittle, demean flagrantly, harshly insinuate keeping mindful, not publicize rabid ****** unwanted villainous withering zeal!
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC
The whole universe paused
Oh Jeune Homme,
What have you done?
Your eyes reflected a picture
of how Proxima Centauri held its feeling no longer;
It exploded!
Into trillion heaps of wonders
it shattered
And it seemed like the sky is falling
That even the earth stood still wondering
But why did you not flinch at all?
Though on your chest I felt the great vibration
Of Mount Vesuvius fulminating once again;
Getting rid of all its innards and pain
As if trying to turn us into ashes
And for that my heart beat races
But you were smiling instead-
looking at me in the eyes and said
"Not a single mountain had erupted,
and not a single star had exploded.
Jeune fille, you're just in love."
-8/4/19-
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 11:41 PM UTC
She brushed her veil aside and tilted her head upward,
Not seeking comfort or benediction,
Only to confirm what she **** well knew was happening,
That the skies, full of gray and grim portent if not outright malice,
Had picked this very time to begin steadily dripping,
Signaling what was sure to be a sodden downpour
(The weekend already chock-a-block with disasters:
The chocolate fountain a testament to dysfunction,
The rehearsal dinner poached salmon overdone and dry
The limousine company downsizing them at the last minute,
Having realized their top-line models
Could never handle the grade or narrow figure-eight drive
Up to the mansion’s precarious hilltop locale.)
The photographer, who’d lived around here all his days
And had developed a sixth sense
Concerning the vagaries of the weather
As well as those of combustible brides,
Had done his best to border-collie the proceedings along,
But as the droplets increased in size and intensity
Recriminations were hurled and doors slammed
As the bridal party sulked off
Toward what promised to be a most interesting reception.
We’d witnessed the goings on,
(Bride fulminating, groom supplicating
The location for the pictures apparently his idea,
Thus proving there are places
Where angels and husbands should fear to tread)
From a safe distance, under the overhang of the great porch
Overlooking the broad, ostensibly placid Hudson below,
Having come here in spite of the clouds,
As the odd rumble of thunder,
And occasional spate of rain being part and parcel of things,
As we’d mucked through these parts long enough to know
That they were fleeting,
And not without compensations of their own
If one was of a mind to seek them out
(We knew full well of the bewitchment
Of seeing the clouds descend slowly,
Covering the sleeping silhouette of old Rip Van Winkle
Slumbering in the knobby Catskill foothills just to the southeast)
And no more than fifteen minutes
After the newly minted man and wife left,
The sun broke through, glorious and unfiltered,
And we ducked into the great room of the house,
Reveling in the magic of unaugmented light.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC
When the gravity of the moment stops
time.
When the probability of the end
falls
straight through the middle and we are centered
firmly
in the present. A Wait so great, there's no
Entropy.
The firmament stilled against its center.
Gravitational
A-Constant against our emergent mass.
Intrinsic vibrational force,
the center and the edge. Entanglement
edge and center, overlap, and collapsed,
fulminating
the wholeness where the radius tunnels
into and around and expounding the
infinity of existence inside of us.
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 3:42 PM UTC
I am exhausted sometime I find myself
Waking in pain calling no name
Just swelling with salty tears
Life is less about fears
Than fearing the regret
Not about what I have not done yet
But what I missed waiting
How frustrating
How illuminating
The future is a fountain flowing
Growing and fulminating
Glittering and emanating
All origins of life
That is why I never regret the night
I only fight the light
For the right to decide
How I succeed or **** up my life
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC